


Time Only For Us

by Edoro



Series: Organized Crimestuck [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fingerfucking, Flushed Romance | Matesprits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoro/pseuds/Edoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which up-and-coming mafia troll Terezi Pyrope goes in search of a temporary bodyguard and then decides to keep him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Only For Us

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for a friend! This takes place in a universe I've lovingly dubbed Organized Crimestuck, also known as "Gamzee and Terezi kill people and fuck: the AU".

It’s a business arrangement, at first.

It’s very simple, really, and something Terezi’s negotiated a thousand times before; there is work that needs to be done in this city, vital and necessary work that nevertheless must be done in the shadows and the shifting times between night and day, when their whole world is still silent and sleeping. There is blood dried underneath Justice’s nails, and the work of Her hand can be grim. 

So Terezi goes to the church, which is not technically affiliated with any particular _organization_ within the city but is, in a very underhanded way, associated with all of them. She goes to the church and tells them that she needs a bodyguard. She is appropriately proper and also appropriately improper in that way they find so amusing. They cannot, of course, give her any direct help, for that would be unseemly. She nods with a solemn face barely pulled over her smile, but she understands that if she were to perhaps go visit a certain bar at a certain time, she might find a cultist willing to help her out of the goodness of their own heart.

It’s a lowblood bar that reeks heavily of citrus, the air a swirling cloud of greenish-yellow blurs around her, and it turns out that finding her help isn’t hard. She comes in and stands still in the doorway, hands folded over the top of her cane and head tilted back, sniffing like a human police trackbeast picking up the trail. The sudden shock of grape jelly in the middle of all that sifting yellow nearly makes her sneeze. Grinning, she saunters on over, tapping out the outline of a chair with her cane and dropping into it.

“Are you the wicked sister what I’m supposed to be getting my motherfucking protection on all up towards?” he asks, slouching back in his chair even as she leans forward.

He’s a long lean line of black and grey, his symbol a grape jelly starburst in the middle of his licorice chest and his face a thick, oily white dotted with greasy grey just barely darker than his wet concrete skin. His voice is low and lilting and resonates dreamily inside her skull.

She holds her hand out, grin still firmly in place, until he wraps his long fingers around it and they shake,

“Terezi Pyrope.”

“Gamzee Makara, at your motherfucking service, chica.”

She has never been a wicked sister before! She thinks this will be fun.

Even with her certainty that she’ll enjoy it, she has doubts. Being a cultist of a notoriously violent church is no guarantee that he’ll do what she needs him to do, and her initial impression of him is not completely favorable. He seems too lax, his every movement slow and loopy and full of wasted energy, loose, his voice too dreamy and unfocused. She’ll watch him carefully and if he doesn’t do well enough, it’ll be back to the church, or perhaps to one of her other contacts. She has many who owe her a number of favors!

As it turns out, he performs admirably and Terezi wants to keep him. Good help is hard to come by, especially in her cutthroat world, and there’s not even a price tag on a man who hums to himself while he twists heads off as casually as popping open a bottle of soda. He works in blurs of grey and then bursts of vivid color, a storm dripping macabre rainbows. She could watch him do it forever, she thinks.

The admiration shows itself to be mutual fairly quickly. He makes up pet names for her, calls her his most wicked tits litigious sister and the best most tiniest bringer of the hellwhimsy he’s ever even motherfucking seen, says she’s a perfect cyclone of murdermirth all wrapped neat and nice up in red eyes and shark teeth. He thinks she’s a beautiful joke, this tiny little thing smiling at a motherfucker from all up behind a cane, just ready to bristle with blades and cut the hellacious punchlines into all of every other motherfucking thing.

They begin an odd courtship, clumsy and calculated as anything she’s ever involved in. She’s heard that they’re celibate, the subjugglators are, and is surprised to find him sweetly adept at flirtation. Maybe it’s his taste for games; their courtship is as much a game as everything else they indulge in. It’s a game played on the chessboard of the entire city, and he matches her step for step.

She lets him do her dirty work for her sometimes. Somehow it becomes almost more often than not, and somehow he becomes a constant presence right at her side in her office as well as out on the streets, tall and silently grinning. His grin smells like smeary licorice and teeth and a thin bitter thread of madness and she wants to lick it. 

There are uncharitable things said, about Pyrope and her pet psychopath and how she’s gone soft, has to have him do all her work, but she’s more than happy to explain that she’s just as capable as ever but likes to watch him. Examples work very well to get this across, she finds.

He piles corpses up and paints for her, daubing his fingers into freshly carved body cavities and then smearing long lines along the walls. He only uses her most favorite colors, spicy cherry reds and sweet oranges and candy blues and rich minty greens, and crafts for her the most delicious tapestries. He’s her artist, he tells her, spinning out the most deliriously good killing truth from the bodies of the unsanctified peasantry, drawing on the ugliness of the unworthy to make her beautiful things. 

Gently, his touch lighter than she had even thought him capable of, he paints her mouth red and then his own, and once she’s licked her lips clean he brings his to her, sticky hand sliding up into her hair, and they’re both lost.

He kisses her softly at first, letting her lick the blood from him and then lick into his mouth, tongue curling over his gums and the needle points of his teeth, all snaggled and staggered and never quite in rows. Maybe a row and a half on the top and just a big mess on the bottom. His hands settle on her waist, long fingers curling around her hips and claws just barely pricking. All she can smell is him, the thick and greasy smell of his facepaint foggy through the explosion of spicy red and sweet blue, her mouth overwhelmed with maroon and the slick white of his teeth.

She rakes a hand down his back and he makes a startled noise and then moves against her, biting at her tongue and lips and then they’re kissing properly, hard and wet and sharp, both just a little careless with their teeth. Gamzee’s arms wind around her and pull her even closer, tight up against the slim planes of his cool body, hips nudging forwards into hers. Grinning, she pushes him back against the wall, smearing his painting all over his back and nearly tripping him over the body he was most recently painting from. 

“Let me show you,” she pulls back to say, licking a drip of indigo off his chin, “how to treat a lady.”

She shows him right up there against the wall, reads him out the manual, and then he shows her how to treat _him_ splayed out across the desk on his back, shows her how to grind up just right until he’s whimpering and bucking. Then she reads him the next chapter kneeling over his face, hands wrapped tight around his horns and yanking every time he gets a little _too_ toothy. They trade back and forth as they explore each other, all sharp kisses and thin lips and long fingers curled and pulling in each other’s hair, cool skin and cool blood sticky on it, up against walls and on desks and over the bodies of his art supplies and in rooms that reek of blood and death and sex. 

They exhaust each other. And every time they sink a little more deeply into each other, understand a little bit more. Every time they kiss she lets him a little farther in behind her walls, and every time he cants his hips against her with that little sigh he makes she puts another piece of him in place, and like that they fall slowly into knowing each other.

He lives with the church in an acolyte’s quarters, barer than she would have imagined, and she decides it won’t do. He settles into her own home easily enough, bringing his clothes and filling it with his the smell of him. It’s odd and almost upsetting at first, to be reminded that someone else is there when she least expects it, to catch a sudden whiff of _doesn’t belong_ while walking through her room, but it’s comforting too to always be able to inhale and think of him. 

Not to mention it’s so much more convenient to have him sharing her recuperacoon.

He snuggles into her, long body curled around her and his nose tucked against her neck, like he can smell her pulse through her skin. There is a very real risk of being impaled on his long, curving horns! She shifts her chin carefully between them and decides not to care, and only idly considers what she’ll do to him if it happens.

“Teresister,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble through her throat. She likes it when he calls her that, because, as she’s told him several times, it sounds like ‘Terror Sister’ and that is without a single doubt absolutely what she is.

“You are not supposed to talk right now, Gamzee. You are supposed to be sleeping.” She whaps the nearest part of him she can find, catching the flat of her hand on a hipbone. She suspects she may have come out the worse in this exchange, but she will never let the enemy see her cry. Or watch her suck on her bruised fingers. 

“Yeah, but I gotta be getting out some words to you, baby girl. Got something I have a motherfucking need to be telling to you.” He lifts his head away and very nearly smashes her nose with a horn.

She can almost imagine her grin, fiercely white through the green-shadowed dimness of the recuperacoon. “Then tell me quickly and return to the task at hand. Your lack of focus is deplorable.”

In the recuperacoon, everything smells like limey slime and skin and she can hardly distinguish between the two of them, let alone track his movements. It’s a surprise when his cool mouth presses against the corner of hers, tongue flicking out to run over the nearest couple of teeth.

“I love your motherfucking smile, girl,” he says, his voice going so deep it buzzes in her horns. “I wanna pull out every motherfucking one of those sharp little choppers and put them on a motherfucking string and wear them up on my neck so the whole motherfucking world can be getting its look on to what a perfect ninja girl I got here, so I can tell at those motherfuckers the truest gospel of this best motherfucking red sister. Red as the motherfucking tides of blood I will spill for you, Rezibabe, and perfect as the most beautiful motherfucking joke what be that that fucking swill ever runs in any motherfucker’s veins in the first place. I wanna wear your motherfucking smile and lick the blood out of your mouth and tell everyone -”

She listens, a tight heat growing in her with every velvety dark word, until it nearly snaps and so does she and she kisses him, hard, biting at his lips and the tongue he curls around her teeth, his cool blood a thick fruity explosion in her mouth. There’s a response to all of that somewhere inside her, which she growls into his mouth, a declaration of her own deepest red love spoken in snarls and the way their blood runs together down their chins.

They shift and one of her knees slides between his legs, parting his slim thighs and then pressing up hard between them. With a breathless little sound, he grinds down, hips jerking into the bruising pressure. She can feel the coarse thread of his stitches against her skin, scraping as she rocks her knee back and forth - they are celibate, she discovered, and not just by oath but by holy mutilation too, by writ of thick black stitches barring her any entry to him. He let her lick them when she first found out, get down and run her tongue over the tightly drawn flesh and watery grape juice scars and anise thread, until she was satisfied and he was flushed and squirming and straining up into her tongue, seeking a pleasure he could never reach.

He’s told her before how it hurts to be touched, whispering it breathlessly against her neck in the ecstatic tones of a man reciting scripture while their hips rocked together. The groan when she pushes up hard with her knee is equal parts satisfied and agonized, and she can almost taste the way his pulse is hammering.

“I want to know,” he gasps, one hand reaching to curl tight in her hair and the other skittering down her side, claws drawing little teal welts, “how such a tiny motherfucking ninjasis with such a big, soft motherfucking ass can have such _motherfucking bony_ knees.”

Her only response is to laugh, that machine gun hyena cackle he loves so much. Then his fingers sweep over the slit of her nook, not quite pressing in, and she sighs, tilting her hips against his hand. He strokes around her entrance for a while, smearing her body’s own lubrication and the thick sliminess of sopor over the lips of her seedflap and up along the underside of her extending bulge, and then carefully slips two fingers into her.

Even when he’s being gentle, his claws scrape her, but the pain is electrifying and she arches into it, walls tightening around his fingers. He pumps them in and out with an infuriating slowness, chuckling at the impatient little noises she makes.

“Be patient, girl,” he says. She dips her head and lays a series of bites down his neck, as slow and rhythmically careful with it as he’s being with his fingers. Every time those fingers brush the deepest parts of her she closes her teeth on him, and the blood in her mouth is indistinguishable from the bruises pooling under his skin. It draws wet little gasping noises out of him and make his hips jerk against her knee but has regrettably little effect on how quickly his hand moves.

She _grinds_ with her knee, hands sliding down to hold his hips in place with claws pricking into his soft thin skin, making him whine and his whole body jerk, fingers curling inside of her. For a moment afterwards he’s just still, trembling as the pain shocks its way through him, and then he begins to fingerfuck her properly. He presses a third one in, stretching her almost uncomfortably, and moves his hand against her the way she can--and does, so very often--only dream of him doing with his hips, a hard snapping pace that drives up into her and leaves her feeling so empty for the brief moments he isn’t filling her.

She bites him again, at the junction between his shoulder and neck, and hopes he can feel her smug little grin against his skin. The way he laughs - choked and almost gasping - makes her think he can.

Soon enough it’s hard to tell her own noises from his, both of them chirruping out pained gasps of desperate, aching pleasure. Although both his pain and the pleasure he gets from it are greater than hers, she still almost can’t tell who she’s hearing. It’s another thing she loves about him, the way he can sound so much like her, the way he _harmonizes_ with her - he sings to her, sometimes, too, old songs and new ones and some he’s made up just for and about her - matching her pitch and desperation.

Both of which are going higher and higher, her cries taking on that vibrating little back of the throat chirp that shows how close she’s getting. His claws scrape throbbing, hot lines of pain down the inside of her nook as she tightens around him and for a moment she thinks, she _knows_ he’s going to keep her there, squirming and pressing desperately into him and right on the edge until she can climax with nothing but his fingers in her, her bulge twisting untouched against itself. It takes so much longer that way, the pleasure spinning out until it’s almost painful how much she needs it, and the thought makes her shudder and whine.

But then his other hand is curling around her bulge and letting it wrap itself around his fingers and wrist, stroking with a slow and even pressure in contrast to the jerky rhythm of his fingers inside of her. The sudden shock of pleasure, after he’d neglected her bulge for so long and she’d expected it not to happen, draws an embarrassing noise out of her and makes her shudder, curling in against him.

He works her deftly, neither hand faltering even once, and she lets herself get lost in the pleasure of it. She just feels, vision dark as always and nose and mouth filled with the smell and taste of his blood and skin, her entire world narrowed down to the places where his body is touching hers. Time stretches out and becomes nothing, becomes just another word that has no meaning in her head any more because it is not his claws in her or her teeth in him or his long fingers wrapped around her squirming bulge, until she is not rising up to a peak of pleasure but instead drowning in it, directionless and motionless and utterly helpless. 

Her climax hits her like lightning to the spine. Her entire body tightens, every muscle seizing up hard, her nook clenching down around his fingers and her bulge spasming against his palm, and she bites down hard into his shoulder, tearing the punctures ragged as she shakes and keens out his name. It goes on until it almost hurts and she wants to scream and he _keeps moving his hands_ , both slowly and methodically now, pulling her into a series of rough waves whose peaks push all the air out of her lungs. Gradually it evens out and he lets go of her, sliding his hand slowly up her stomach and pulling the other out of her with a faint wet little squelch and then wraps both arms around her, pulling her helplessly trembling body in against his chest and tucking her head up under his chin.

She can no more stop herself shaking than she can pull the moon out of the sky, and after a futile moment stops trying and lets the aftershocks wash over her. Every part of her feels loose and warm and is buzzing with exhausted, sated pleasure. There’s a slow throbbing starting up between her legs, warm and soft for now, and she knows she’ll be sore in the morning, but can’t bring herself to care.

He’s panting, she realizes after some of the fog clears, heart still hammering in his chest, and she wonders if he came. Probably not. He doesn’t usually, can’t usually, although she’s gotten him there a handful of times, through dint of sheer effort. The very first time he didn’t think she could, but Terezi Pyrope has never been one to let something she wants go. Maybe tomorrow she’ll lay him out and return the favor.

She mumbles something mostly wordless against his throat and receives a low rumble that spreads through his chest in response, a soothing sound that pushes her further towards sleep. Muzzy thoughts of her mouth and fingers moving over his skin, bringing him the sacred poetry of pain he loves so much, painting her love for him in slick purple scratches down his thighs, circle through her mind. Maybe she’ll hook her claws into the sorry excuses for gills he’s close enough to seatrolls to have and yank until he screams, she thinks, and everything after that is smooth dark blankness.


End file.
